


Dying Sparks and Lonely Ashtrays

by yogurtfairy



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Drabble and a Half, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:50:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtfairy/pseuds/yogurtfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His ashtray is the alter, his lungs are the sacrifice, and the Marlboro Man's the priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying Sparks and Lonely Ashtrays

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story for WTNV, an AU where Cecil takes smoke breaks after his radio show, and I can't stop writing lengthy drabbles. I apologize for any grammar mistakes.

After the On Air sign is dead for the night and he bids the latest batch of interns goodnight, Cecil is alone in the booth with a pack of Marlboros that are screaming to be smoked. He won't smoke them all tonight; there's an ungodly tax on cigarettes in Night Vale and Station Management has warned him about smoking before, via note spit out from under their door. Cecil lights one and takes a drag, relief (and nicotine) flooding through him. He leans back in his chair and exhales, smoke spilling from his mouth. He smiles, his ritual beginning. His ashtray is the alter, his lungs are the sacrifice, and the Marlboro Man's the priest. 

Cecil's been smoking in the booth off and on for years but he's been doing it a couple nights a week lately. He doesn't really know why or when but he assumes it started when Carlos moved here. Cecil does this ritual to organize his thoughts and Carlos, unintentionally, shatters them. 

Carlos, with his perfect, perfect hair. Carlos, with his pretty face and strong jaw. Carlos, with his passion for science. Carlos, with his caramel skin and pearly teeth. Thinking of Carlos is like the volcano Cecil made for the Night Vale Middle School science fair when he was twelve. Every day is one more mento dropped in, one more chemical reaction waiting to happen, one more level of pressure. Cecil's nearing his eruption (no pun intended) and he's not sure what he'll do when it happens, especially if Carlos is near. Will he grab Carlos and kiss him senseless? Will he see him at Rico's Pizza, shove him against the wall, and bite into that caramel neck? Cecil can feel heat boiling inside him. He shakes off the oncoming need to give in, like a coach passenger shaking off the early signs of plane sickness. 

He tries to think of other things, like his job. He's been on fairly good terms with Station Management lately, despite his smoking. A new intern started today. Cecil wasn't very impressed with her; she had a chipper voice and wore way too many bangles on her left arm. The cat from the men's room is doing great. 

Cecil then ponders the status of Night Vale itself. A young impressionist painter just moved in from Fargo. He smirks; she should have stayed in Fargo. Old Woman Josie is asking her neighbors for salt packets so the angels can have salt on the go. Cecil has yet to find out why the angels need salt anyway.

Cecil takes a drag, now on his third cigarette, and absently pushes his glasses back into place. It's about 11:35pm and Cecil knows Station Management will be spitting out notes soon, telling him to close down and leave. Cecil sighs and kills his cigarette before packing up his stuff, dying sparks and lonely ashtrays.


End file.
